John's Blogs-100 Days Of Watson
by Seraphic Calamitious
Summary: "It's hard. Coping. You never know how much you'll miss them. You take them for granted while they're there. You miss them like hell when they've gone. You hope they'll come back. That they will walk through the door with that smile on their face and say that it's alright, and that it wasn't real. That it was fake." Set after Reichenbach. Hope you like it! Xxx
1. Friday, 20th

**Friday, 20th.**

It's hard. Coping. You never know how much you'll miss them. You take them for granted while they're there. You miss them like hell when they've gone. You hope they'll come back. That they will walk through the door with that smile on their face and say that it's alright, and that it wasn't real. That it was fake. That things are back to normal, without the hurt and pain, and especiallywithout the tears and the sleepless nights.

They make stories of it. They aren't the truth. They twist it to their own satisfaction. Making sure they get the responce they want. I'm here to tell you that it isn't the truth. He died to save us, to save take it for granted each day. He was a special person with a special mind, and he died for the right reasons.

I've been told that writing a blog helps. It didn't help in the past and it isn't really helping now. I don't know why I'm writing this. I suppose it helps get emotions out, but that makes me feel worse. Everyone's saying I should move and carry on, but I can't. And if I ever can, it's going to be years to get back to life.

I'll sign off now, to try and get some sleep. Another nightmare will leave me awake, then I'll be left laying, thinking. Just like every other day.

John.

* * *

**I konw it wasn't very long, but I didn't want to use up all my ideas on the first chapter. They will stay this length. Sorry. Xxx**


	2. Saturday, 21st

**Saturday, 21st.**

Another weekend alone. Mrs Hudson's found herself some new toyboy-type fellow. Molly is busy at work. I could go to Mycroft, but I don't feel like being with a Holmes today. Or any day for that matter. I've had enough of Holmes' for this lifetime. Any lifetime thinking about it.

I visited his grave last night after writing on here. I sat down leaning against it for an hour and a half, crying. By chance, an old lady stopped and picked me up. She saw that I got back here safely then went her own way. It's people like that who stop me from going mental. If I didn't have the occasional visitor, or passer-by, I would stay in one place, fixated on my memories of him. I really would go mental.

They're out on the street again. Two rival '_gangs_' have set up '_bases_' on either end of the road. Every night, at 9pm exactly, they go onto the street and fight, blocking up the road for ages. In the end, someone will get extremely bored and they turn their backs on fighting and concentrate on licking their wounds. The most serious injury any of them has had was when one got ran over by a cyclist.

My psychiatrist said my emotions are "all over the place at this desperate hour". I then proved her right by getting wound up, losing my temper and storming out. This blog's not helping much in letting out my emotions. I get angry one minute, then I'm shaking, then it's onto lonely. I can't control myself. It's very rare that I go out. When I do, I get the shopping in, visit his grave then come back. A half an hour job. That is, until I collaps at his grave and cry.

I'm leaving you with this definition of a saying.

**life ruiner** (_noun_)  
someone who constantly ruins your life with their perfection, and smiles while they do it.

John.


	3. Sunday, 22nd

**Sunday, 22nd.**

Damn it! Why did _he_ leave? Why did _he_ have to mess things up? Selfish, pompous twit. _He_ jumped. _He_ bloody jumped off a building and killed himself. _He_ said he was a fake. I don't believe _him_. _He_ spoke so fluently, filled with confidence and sometimes a tiny hint of trepidation. Never false, never fake. Just, so... _Him_...

I believed_ him_ up until that day. _He_ never lied unless there was a very, very good reason to. And that hardly ever happened anyway. Everything that came out of _his_ mouth was true, except those words. They hurt, deep inside. Like someone had stabbed me in the gut over and over again.

The things that get me are the people. The witnesses. They say they heard a gun-shot a few minutes before _he_ jumped. Lestrand said he found a small pool of blood, but no one found a body. It wasn't _his_ blood. And the guards at the bottom said no one went out after. No trace of the person injured.

_He_ was my only friend when I came back. I placed my life around _him_ and _him_ only. And now that _he's_ gone, I have to completely change my life. It's harder than it sounds, but I've tried. I've really tried. It doesn't work. I went to 5 different job interviews, but I got distracted on each. They all told me they'd get in touch, yet three weeks on from my last interview, no word has been given. At all.

I quit my old job as the 'Consulting Detective' after he went. I refused to talk to anyone or do anything with the team. They just weren't _him_. As good as they were, they'd never live up to _him_. No one ever will. Hopefully, in time, I'll learn to face the future and leave the past.

John.


	4. Monday, 23rd

**Monday, 23rd.**

My life can't get any worse. My past problems seem like a walk in the park compared to this. I've been kidding myself. He's gone. Gone, gone, gone. Forever.

Mycroft came earlier and he wasn't alone. His ideas accompanied him too. Mad, impossible ideas. He dropped off a letter and left. I had to meet him at the cafe down town. It was awful. He claimed that _he_ was alive and in London. That _he_ faked his death to save us. Memories and feelings so deep that I had hidden came up and out of me. I was babbling and I wasn't taking it all in. The next thing I remembered was getting out the car and walking back up to my apartment. I didn't remember the car journey, or the nonsense I was throwing out, but I was glad to be back and away from it all. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite got rid of my feelings.

As soon as I got inside I threw a plate at the wall. Mrs Hudson came in to see what was going on but I had thrown a towel over the mess and hidden the evidence. After a few minutes of her fussing over me, I cleared the mess and went to bed. I didn't get to sleep, so I got up and wrote this fruitless blog. People have been commenting and giving me support of kinds. Thank you for that, but there really isn't any point. I don't read them and I don't intend to start now. Sorry for any offence caused.

Mycroft texted me earlier as I was cleaning up. He told me he wasn't lying and that _he_ really was alive. I ignored it and carried on tidying up. He sent another one saying I shouldn't hide from my feelings and emotions. He pointed out that through all my blogs, all my conversations about _him_, that I haven't mentioned _his_ name once. At all. I told him I would include _his_ name when and if I felt like it. It wasn't his buisness.

I'm just going to say this last comment to two specific people in particular; If you are reading this Mycroft, take the advice. Leave my buisness to me, not you; And if _you_ are alive and in London, plese don't get in touch. I couldn't handle it if _you_ came back and acted all normal. _You_ left me alone and in the dark. That's not what friends do. I couldn't handle it, having gone through that mental torture just for nothing. It would break down any sanity I actually have left.

John.


	5. Tuesday, 24th

**Tuesday, 24th.**

Slept in late this morning. In bed until at least 9am. I normally get up at 7am, but who cares? I don't have to work yet, so it's all good. I turned my phone on and saw I had thirteen missed calls from Mycroft. Ten texts too. He's taking it too far now. He's obsessed himself into finding _him_. I'm trying to avoid him now. I can't be sucked into believing _he_'s alive, then just get disappointed. Anyway, I don't want to find_ him_. He would have contacted Mycroft if he really cared, but he hasn't.

I'm coping better today. It has been the best day of the past month and a half. No interruptions yet, just peace and calm. I have another hour and a half until the 'gangs' come out, so I can relax and read a book or something, have a nice cup of tea. Or even go to bed nice and early for another warm lay-in. I might leave this early. Night.

John.

* * *

It's nearly midnight. I know it's late but I had to write everything down now. I can't keep it in. An hour ago, I heard a noise outside the apartment door. I thought it was someone going home upstairs, or even next door, but the noise was still there a minute later. I got up quietly and went to see what it was, and outside my door stood Mycroft. By the looks of him, he had been drinking. A lot. I pulled him in and gave him some coffee to sober him up. I half-listened to his drunk mumblings but my mind was somewhere else. It was like a mystery. Mycroft isn't the sort of man to get hammered until he can no longer walk in a straight line. I asked him some simple questions, but the only reply I got was a drunk mumble for each. I left him on the sofa for a minute while I got him another drink, but when I returned, I found him searching through the desk. I asked him what he was doing and he pinned me to the wall. He said that it was none of my buisness anymore and that he needed to do it. I cleaned the spilt drink up and left him to it. After all, who would argue with an emotional, drunk man like him?

After five or ten minutes, he sobered up a little more and sat down. Even though he could now walk without me helping him, alcohol still clouded his mind, and he started to cry uncontrollably. I gave him a box of tissues but he slapped the away and curled up. He said he wanted to go home, so I escorted him outside to the car waiting for him. When I went back up, I saw a white crisp envelope on the floor. I picked it up and ran downstairs to give it back to Mycroft, but he had left already. I walked back up and stared at the envelope. After minutes of silence, I opened it and took the contents out. A new looking letter, a stamp and a few blurry photographs. The letter was addressed to Mycroft, but it was unsigned. After reading it, I figured it was just nonsense. The photos were too blurred to recognise anything or anyone, though the same man was in all four of them, not in focus, but definitely there. These didn't bother me. What struck the most fear was the stamp. It was the type of old fashioned red seal used for letters and parcels. I had found some on my cases with _him_, and had seen the contents of two or three, but had thought they were pure nonsense set by Moriarty. I looked at it, and thought it was silly of me to get scared over a seal. I tossed it to one side and tried to forget about it. But I couldn't. No matter which way I faced in bed, the seal seemed to follow me. It all seems so silly now.

Look at my writing. I've never wrote so much in one sitting. And the spelling mistakes. I always try to stay on top of grammar, but it seems that when you are deprived of sleep and a clear head, you tend to rush and make mistakes. Sorry. You can criticise me if you like. What is it they call you? Something about grammar police...? No? Oh well. And even if you do criticise me, I have more important things to worry about. Plus, I hardly ever read the comments. Only when someone tells me to because there's something that can actually help me, and that only happens about once a month. I'm going to try and get some sleep. Or just a small power nap, just to keep me refreshed.

John.


	6. Wednesday, 25th

**Wednesday, 25th.**

I didn't get that power-nap I said I wanted. Instead, I was greeted by unanswered questions which seemed to pile up infront of me. I got up at 4am and gave up trying to sleep. I looked the seal up on the internet and found a few websites somehow linked to it, but none that would help me. I was about to give up and throw my laptop out the window when I saw I had an e-mail. Well, it wasn't for me. It was still logged on in _his_ name, so it was technically for _him_. I looked at it to see who would be e-mailing a dead man, but it was a notification thing, saying that _he_ had a comment on a blog. I looked at the blog and couldn't believe my eyes.

I had been on_ his_ website on numerous occasions, seen every blog _he_ posted up there, even commented on a few, but this blog was new to me. After looking at the date, I realised it was new to everyone. The date said it was published on the 22nd. I hadn't seen the new e-mail up until then, so I figured it may have been a problem with the system, that it must have been the 22nd last month. Impossible. _He_ died two months ago. Okay, the 22nd of a few month's ago. No matter how much I argued against myself, I still couldn't convince myself it was a misunderstanding, a small problem.

I concentrated on the blog again and started to read it. I nearly collapsed. The whole blog was about the seals _he_ had found on the cases. _He_ explained in fine detail how they all tied up with the evidence around him. _He_ even went to the extreme and posted several helpful websites. It was clear that it took _him_ ages to do all of it but you could see _he_ had loved every minute of it. I silently thanked _him_, putting all doubts to the back of my mind.

I called Mycroft, told him I had the envelope and that he needed to go on _his_ website. He called me back a little later and told me to meet him again, this time for a small chat. I declined and hung up. Even though I had dug him an even bigger hole to get out of, I couldn't throw myself in too. It was too late for him. It wasn't too late for me. No. It isn't too late for me.

John.


	7. Thursday, 26th

**Thursday, 26th.**

There was a knock on my door earlier, dead on 10am. I looked outside but no one was there. I pushed it aside, convinced it was a wrong door, or kids messing about. Then at 11am, the same knock exactly. Again, no one outside. Then again at 12pm. And 1pm. And 2pm. By 3pm, I was a little bit fed up. I went outside five minutes before they were due to knock. I went up the next flight of stairs a little way to see them knocking, but ten minutes later, I was still on the stairs. No sign of the mysterious knocker. I went back inside, and the second I closed the door, the knock came. I flung open the door and looked into the hall. Deserted. Completely empty.

The knocks continued through to 7pm. I couldn't stand it. I grabbed my coat and left.

I had tried to make my walk last as long as possible, trying to avoid the hour, but I still only managed an hour of walking. I got to my door at 8pm. I reached the handle and was about to enter when the knock came again. From the inside of the flat. After a minute or two, I heard it again. Slightly muffled though. I went in and heard it coming from _his_ room. I entered and found no one there. It had to be my imagination. Playing tricks as always. Or my mind playing crueler ones. Making me think _he'd_ come back and that the impossible was actually reality. But no. It was just fantasy. I still haven't worked out what the knocks were. They went after I left _his_ room. It was back to lonely old John Watson in his empty little flat. With no visitors. Change would be a nice visitor.

John.


	8. Friday, 27th

**Friday, 27th.**

Ordinary day. Boring. Though unlike _him_, when I get bored, I do not start painting smiley faces on the walls and shooting them. Yes, it would be quite fun, but when _he_ did it, Mrs Hudson put an extra £30 on the rent. And I had to pay half! Even though I was the one who stopped it from becoming a large gaping hole that meant you could see all the way through. It's faded a lot now. It used to look quite cheerful, in a strange sort of way, but now it just stirrs up memories, mixes them all up. It looks quite spooky and alone.

Just a little update on the gangs down either end of the road. They no longer fight. One got ran over by an angry car driver on Wednesday, and they all declared it too dangerous to fight there any more. Instead, I've heard they send angry hate letters to each other. Not the way I would have gone, but hey, at least they aren't using physical violence.

The only thing that hasn't changed is _his_ grave, I think. I went on Wednesday, and the gravestone was gleaming. The name stood out clear as day. Everytime I try to concentrate, it pops into my head. I was at yet another interview, just the other day, and it popped into my head. I couldn't focus, and I ended up with the same phrase of 'We'll ring if you're successful'. We all know I won't be successful. It's a waste of time, but Mrs Hudson's trying to get me back into the world. The big, lonely world. I prefer my small, lonely flat, personally.

One last note to end on. Whoever owns the blue Vauxhall Corsa across the road had better hurry up and move it. There are two fairly angry traffic wardens timing you. Going on guesses, you have about seven minutes to move it.

John.


End file.
